


The Painter's Tale

by writeyouin



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Drama, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, Hate to Love, two characters forced together for the hell of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-19 02:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14865098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyouin/pseuds/writeyouin
Summary: When a woman posing as a man is rewarded a wife, will she have what it takes to keep the act up or will her new bride find out her secret?





	1. A Dreadful Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> I just started watching The Handmaid’s Tale and love it so far so here’s a fanfic for y’all, though I don’t know all the terminology yet.

Victor punched the wall hard enough to make a faint crack in the weak plaster, his hand throbbing from the hit. In one moment, his entire life had changed, spurring a chain of events that had quickly spiralled out of control. That moment had been only a few days earlier and Victor had thought himself to be lucky enough to have avoided any change in his menial life, but nobody was that lucky. On his unfortunate day, he like many others had seen a high-speed car coming towards an old man, and not just any old man; General Harkins, one of the highest ranking ‘ _Angels_ ’ of the twisted society that now ruled after the collapse of the previous one. Victor knew who Harkins was when he tackled him to the floor, saving him from the rebel car; if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have bothered saving the man.

Now, Victor really wished he hadn’t saved the General, though with the amount of witnesses at the time, that hadn’t really been an option; if Victor hadn’t saved the General, he probably would have been executed. Though, if he was being honest, execution was looking pretty good.

Ignoring his aching knuckles, Victor looked to the floor of his humble shack, picking up the letter that had caused his outburst. He had to read it properly, to know who SHE would be. His entire life after the formation of Gilead had been designed to avoid this. He managed his life as a lowly painter and decorator, keeping to himself when he could and saying as little as possible when he couldn’t. Was it a lonely life? Maybe, but lonely was better than dead, or worse. One might wonder why he’d chosen a career in painting when he knew he was capable of more, but the answer was obvious to him and him alone. A low career meant a low status, and a low status meant he wouldn’t be assigned a wife, though that was a privilege to most men.

Well, so much for his mighty plan. The letter was clear as day. As a reward for his act of heroism, General Harkins had pulled a few strings to assign Victor a wife. That was where the problem lay. Sure, Victor would be assigned some infertile bitch, but even infertile bitches wanted sex. How long would could he possibly hold off on that option? Probably not long. Sex would be expected of him and women talked amongst themselves; his new wife would eventually let it slip that Victor hadn’t touched her. In that supposed future, Victor would be tried as a gay man, and then it wouldn’t be long before the court learned what he truly was; a woman in disguise. Of course, there was still a chance that Victor would be executed after that, but it was far more likely that the Eyes would torture her, and only after the heinous act, send her to be a handmaid.

Victor, or Victoria as she was previously known, couldn’t let that happen; she would rather kill herself than become a breeding bitch for some stuffed shirt who probably couldn’t get it up. Yet, as much as she was considering it, suicide wasn’t the most appealing option yet; that was strictly a last resort. Thinking fast, Victor took the letter to her cramped tool shed where she kept a few neglected writing supplies. For somebody of her lowly station, even writing a letter was a dangerous task, but write she did.

_Governor Harkins,_

_I am gratified by your overly generous letter and while you offer too much for my small act, I humbly accept, though I must be bold and ask of you a favour, even though it is not my place to do so._

_You see, my father has forced it into me that a man should only be with one woman throughout their life, and while I couldn’t agree more, I know I cannot be truly happy without a child of my own to teach the trade of home repair._

_Just like our country needs fine men like you, it also needs strong young men to maintain it and do the lowly jobs._

_With that in mind, I’d like to request that my new wife be fertile, so I do not have to commit an act of infidelity._

_If you cannot send me a fertile wife, then I must decline your generous offer._

_Please excuse me for stepping out of my station._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Victor Wallace._

Yes, the letter was an act likely to get Victor killed, but she had to send it anyway, knowing that one of three outcomes would occur once she did.

1 - She would be tried for her insolence and found out.

2 - General Harkins would take the offer of a wife away and nothing further would happen, other than a slap on the wrist.

3 - Somehow, against all odds, General Harkins would provide Victor with a fertile wife, but surely Victor wouldn’t be that unlucky.

* * *

Anastasia wondered about the man she’d been chosen to marry; no handmaid had ever been married off as far as she was aware which made the situation all the stranger. At night, when the matrons were asleep, some of the other girls would talk and gush about how lucky Anastasia was to be rescued from the horrible fate that awaited them. Yet, Anastasia didn’t feel lucky. Lucky would have been if her parents hadn’t moved to America from Russia in the before times, if the before times had ever even existed; it all felt so long ago now. During the first purge when Gilead was forming, Anastasia’s parents had been killed like most immigrants at the time. The only reason Anastasia had been spared was because she was young and fertile; everything Aunt Lydia said women should be. In fact, it was probably because Anastasia was a Russian immigrant that she’d been chosen to marry someone so low; after all, nobody wanted diverse genetics anymore, racist bastards.

Despite her lack of excitement, Anastasia listened to the other women jabber on about her betrothed. Apparently, he was the painter to the Red Centre that served to train all new handmaids; at least now she knew who to blame for the sparse environments of the place that tried to brainwash all fertile women. What she learned about ‘Victor,’ was that he didn’t speak much, though that was probably to spare punishment to himself or the women. However, when he did speak, it was said that he only offered kind words. Anastasia didn’t want kind words. Nor did she want to be married, or to be a handmaid, but when did women ever get what they wanted anymore?

* * *

Victor sat on the bottom step of the staircase, her hands clutched so tightly that the knuckles were white. Nobody would have guessed that the young 'man’ was to be married by the end of the day, and to a handmaid no less, instead they would have probably thought that Victor was about to be sent to the gallows. Victor hadn’t met her bride-to-be yet, but she was already afraid to marry the woman. All she knew about the handmaid in question was that her given name wasn’t like the other handmaids. Instead, she’d been named Mary, which either meant that the Red Centre had given her that name after the beloved Virgin Mary, or the whore Mary Magdalen.

When ‘Mary’ arrived, they both had a few minutes alone together in 'the parlour’ as ordered by the accompanying Aunt Lydia so they could familiarise themselves to one another; as if Victor’s cramped living room could be called a parlour. Neither of the two spoke, both unsure of what was appropriate to say with the Aunt listening in from the other side of the door. Victor stared coolly at Mary, sizing her up as she did in return. Mary had dark brown hair under her habit, pale cracked lips, skin that put ivory to shame, but that all seemed fairly normal to Victor; what wasn’t normal was the way Mary’s charcoal eyes held no fear, only contempt. Victor thought that all handmaids knew nothing but fear, clearly, she was mistaken. If Mary hated him as much as her eyes said, Victor couldn’t tell her that she was a woman too, it was much too risky to hope that Mary would take pity and they could live as friends; Victor was screwed.

Mary, or Anastasia as she’d previously been known, loathed the man before her, not that Victor was much of a man by the look of him. He was smaller than her own five foot four, reaching only her shoulders when stood, he had carrot-red hair cut messily short, a light spattering of freckles on lightly sunburnt skin, and pale green eyes, one of which was lazy; a poor-specimen of a man indeed.

“I uh-” Victor cleared her throat, slipping easily into the deeper voice she’d crafted at the beginning of her deception, “It’s nice to meet you Mary. Uh, Under His Eye.”

Mary had to fight to keep her lip from curling. “Under His Eye,” She greeted neutrally.

Victor was surprised by Mary’s heavy Russian accent; in any other circumstance it would have been beautiful in its uniqueness. “So, uh, is there anything you’d like to know about me?”

“You are to be my husband, under God’s name that is all I need to know.”

“Right, I-”

Aunt Lydia walked in. “That’s enough time,” She said forcefully. “Now we must begin the ceremony.”

To call it a ceremony was overly generous. Since Victor had little status, the wedding simply consisted of the exchanging of the new vows stating that Mary would serve Victor in all 'his’ wishes, and then a piece of paper was signed, noting their marriage for the public record. That surprised Victor, she didn’t think there were any public records anymore.

After that and a reading from the bible that neither Victor or Mary really listened to, they were left alone together. The night was late by that point and Mary awaited the moment when Victor would take her to the bedroom to fuck. Victor felt the seething hatred filling the room again; it was claustrophobic.

In an attempt to break the rising tension, Victor spoke plainly, “What’s your name?”

“My name is Mary.”

“No, not your given name, your real name, from before.”

Mary frowned. Was Victor testing her? She couldn’t tell. “It’s not important.”

“Please.”

The sincerity in his voice made Mary reconsider. Perhaps Victor wasn’t as strict as everyone else, it would be better to be married to someone like that, someone without a stick up their ass, “Anastasia.”

“It sounds nice. I um- It’s late, we should go to bed.”

Anastasia went back to her steely glare; so, he was just the same as every other man. Fine. She was at least prepared for that. She followed Victor up the creaky stairs of the shabby apartment wondering how a professional decorator could let his own home lapse into such disrepair.

The bedroom was just as pathetic as the rest of the house, its only feature being a double bed that at least looked comfortable; not that she was going to be comfortable for the next ten minutes or so, if Victor lasted that long.

“This is the bedroom,” Victor led the way in.

Anastasia held back a snarky, ’ _Obviously._ ’

“My work room is the door before it… That has a sofa in it so I’ll uh, be sleeping there for a while. Give you some time to settle in and all that. If you need anything… don’t hesitate to call on me.” Victor let himself out awkwardly, “And uh, I’ll get you some wife clothes tomorrow.”

Anastasia watched him shuffle away, more confused than she had been during Gilead’s founding. Either Victor was gay, or something was very wrong in this house. She knew he’d asked for a hand maid so why didn’t he want to use her for what she was for. Maybe he was impotent, God she hoped so. Either way, she would do her best to discover what was going on later; for now, sleep had never been more inviting.


	2. An Olive Branch

While Anastasia found solace in sleep, Victor found that she couldn’t do the same on the lumpy sofa in her work room, surrounded by the scent of chemicals and paint. The room itself didn't matter, discomfort was something she could handle. What she couldn't handle was the idea that her ' _wife_ ' could wake up at any moment and snoop around the house, finding any number of items that would reveal that Victor was indeed a woman. How long would it take a smart person to look under the creaky floorboards and find sanitary towels, illegal contraceptive pills in case she needed to stop her periods for any given amount of time, or several sets of fake stubble that she'd prepared just in case? It wouldn't take a genius to figure out what she was, and then all Anastasia would have to do is call Aunt Lydia and get a reward of some kind while Victor's life came to an end. Sure, Victor missed being a woman, but when the cost was losing freedom, sanity, and every scrap of one’s identity, the cost of being a man was much better.

Victor groaned and got up, checking the time on a clock with a smashed face. The curfew for women was long-since passed; fortunately, she was a man now and that meant she could go out, at least for a little while longer. Creeping down the stairs and cursing every creak of the old floorboards, Victor let herself out of the house, taking a small coin-purse with her so she could get what she needed. Fortunately, the fabric shop down the street was open, allowing Victor to buy yards of blue fabric that would serve as her wife's new dress. She couldn't afford much, but this was something she had to have if she didn't want to get in trouble with the Angels or Aunts for keeping her wife in Handmaid's garb. As much as Victor desperately wanted to smooth things over with Anastasia who she was sure could kill her with a look, she couldn't afford the nicer fabric which felt smooth as opposed to the scratchy, thinner fabric she held in her hands.

When she got to the counter where another lowly-ranked man served, Victor didn't like the look she got; shopping was a woman's job, and everyone around the area knew ' _he'd_ ' just been married.

"What'chu doing out so late?" The skinny weasel of a man asked with a sneer. "And buyin' fabric? What, your new wifey didn't put out? I bet I could make 'er."

Victor squared up her shoulders, looking the man dead in the eye and praying the lazy eye looked semi-tough. She'd learned long ago that men's fights were usually won by not backing down, much like deer measuring each-other up before locking antlers.

With a smirk, Victor answered, "Actually, she was a right good fuck. Figure she deserves a treat if she keeps that up. This ought a show her what good behaviour gets."

That was apparently the right answer, or at least good enough to make the weasel ring up the price of the fabric. As Victor left the shop she felt dirty. How did men stand being so crude all the time? She hoped that kind of interaction was not going to become commonplace now that she was married, though if she had to act the part, she wouldn't hesitate. Still, the altercation left her cold. Low lives of all kinds lived in the rough neighbourhood she'd been assigned, how was she to go into work and leave her wife alone there? She couldn't without running the risk of rape. Sure, she didn't care for Anastasia, but no woman deserved that fate, there had to be a solution.

* * *

Anastasia woke up early, her internal body clock set exactly at six in the morning, which was when the Red Centre would have woken her. She frowned, taking in the dirty brown stains on the walls and remembering where she was. Rolling off the lumpy bed, she decided that there was at least one advantage of waking up so early; she could search the house without Victor's prying eyes and find out just what kind of man he was.

She crept to the door, still in her handmaid's dress from the day before, for it was the only outfit she owned. As soon as she stepped into the hallway, she was sickened, her curious expression turning to one of disgust as Victor stepped out of the bathroom, waving a small hand at her.

"Morning... I um- There's some- Uh- Clothes. I have clothes for you. In my work room. I'll uh- I'll go get them."

Victor hated the way Anastasia's eyes tracked her, like a hawk observing a rabbit. She hoped Anastasia wouldn't look too closely and notice the dark circles under her eyes. After getting back, the night before, Victor had been far too paranoid to sleep and had instead spent the night making two dresses and a nightgown that would hopefully fit Anastasia. She came out of the workroom, holding the neatly folded clothes out.

"Where did you get these?" Anastasia asked.

"I bought them. From down the street. There's a clothes shop and- You know, it's always open late and stuff so I thought I'd check it out, and these probably won't fit perfectly, but you can sew right, I mean of course you can- All women can s..." The sentence died in Victor's mouth. She couldn't admit to making the dresses herself, as her seamstress mother had taught her; it alluded too much.

Anastasia was growing to hate Victor more and more as she snatched up the offering from the pathetic man before her; she knew that he was lying to her, he'd said too much too fast for any of it to be true, though where he'd really got the dresses was beyond her and quite frankly, she didn't care.

"I um- Breakfast is downstairs. Get dressed quick, okay? We've got places to be today," Victor fled down the stairs before Anastasia could turn her steely gaze back on her.

Resignedly, Anastasia got changed into one of the two identical dresses, unfussed that it was too long and hung slightly off her slim frame; those were easy things to fix and even the scratchy fabric was more comfortable than her old uniform. When she went downstairs she couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the toast and bacon before her. Bacon was a rare commodity for a household like this, and on top of that, it should have been her to cook it, yet there it was, an offering, charred as it was; evidently, cooking wasn't one of Victor's talents, though how could a man as weak as he have any talents at all?

"Why didn't you wait for me to cook, darling?" Anastasia said the last word with venom, using it as a weapon to lash at Victor.

Victor shrank back from the verbal attack, "I- It's um- How about- It could be an olive branch, if you want."

Anastasia wondered how much power she could gain over Victor, if he was always such a cowered; perhaps she could put him in place beneath her to make up for all the cruelties she'd suffered by man's hand.

Victor swallowed apprehensively, collecting her thoughts before speaking again, "Look, I'm not asking you to like me but... you've at least got to live with me and today- Well, I've been thinking about it and where I live- Where **we** live, isn't a nice neighbourhood. People around here know the penalty for rape, but do you think that'll really stop them from trying?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that you come to work with me."

"Women aren't allowed to work."

"And I'm not asking you to, but I can't leave you alone here. Even if you know self-defence, it's not really wise to use it. Think about it, striking a man, who could say any number of things about you ' _Mary_ ', it doesn’t seem all that smart to me."

Anastasia saw Victor's point. She didn't know self-defence, and should things get out of hand, it would be her word against a man's. She didn't like Victor, but his words rang true, she didn't have much choice. Besides, staying in the disgusting shack was hardly an enjoyable alternative anyway.

"Fine."

Victor felt happy about the small success, though still apprehensive about what he would tell Mrs Ingles about his wife's presence at work while he was painting the upper stories of the manor she resided in; hopefully she would accept ' _it's our honeymoon._ '

 

* * *

 

Fortunately, Victor didn't have to come up with an excuse about ' _Mary's_ ' presence within the manor, for the entire household was out at some function, while the Martha was out shopping. Had Anastasia not been with him, Victor would have been happy; she liked being alone.

It didn't take long to prepare the first room for painting, everything had already been moved out and the floor covered in dust-sheets. Victor provided Anastasia with one of his old stools and prepared the emulsion to cover the walls.

"Hmm, look at this," Victor chuckled sarcastically, "Very creative, having cream for their walls, just like every other house in the neighbourhood."

Anastasia stifled a smile, it was the first thing Victor hadn't stumbled to say, and a joke at that. In times of little humour, a joke went a long way. "I take it you've painted other houses around here."

"Yeah, but all the wives want to think cream is their unique idea, so I tell them what they want to hear, y'know? So, Mrs Daniels next door says her walls are ' _Egg-Shell_ ', and Mrs Wilkinson over the road, she says hers are ' _Snowfall_ '. Davies around the corner has ' _Lunar Moon_ '. That's just what I tell them all to make them feel special," Victor snickered between brush strokes. "They all got the same damn paint, but none of them seem to notice or care. Just once, I want one of them to make me paint, dare I even think it, blue. Or yellow, green, red, any colour but the same damned cream. Calling this paint ' _Cloudy Sky_ ' is the same thing as me calling your dress ' _Duck Egg_ ,' but they'll eat it up as long as it sets them apart from the crowd and gives them something to talk about in their little dinner parties. It's hilarious."

"So, you get bored?"

"Nah, working in these places is always entertaining, one way or another. First things first, the grub's always good, but we've lucked out on that one today. Then there's the gossip, which is always great to make fun of, quietly though. Oh, and let’s not forget the few rare occasions that I get to do up a nursery, those are always the best days."

Anastasia scowled darkly, "Yes, because babies are our future..." She left out the part about how they were stolen from handmaid's, still cautious not to throw her life away over an off-handed comment.

Victor dipped his brush in the paint, risking a quick glance at her, "No, because I just like to paint something pretty. A rainbow here, a sun there, but more than that, I'll occasionally get to see a handmaid on those days, and that's when I get to sneak in some of my food or have a little chat and all that. It seems to me, a little goes a long way with handmaids, the poor buggers are so deprived. Is uh... Is that what it was like for you in the Red Centre?"

"No," Anastasia answered curtly. She refused to talk about her experiences in that God-awful place where the worst of tortures were performed on her, though not nearly as bad as some of the others who had suffered.

Victor sensed that this was the end of the conversation and went hastily back to work, annoyed that she'd probably just snapped her olive branch clean in half by saying the wrong thing. Despite her poor choice of words, the silence did seem less tense than before; perhaps she had made a little headway.

By the end of the day, when the van was packed up and she and Anastasia were ready to go home, many pious wives, handmaid's and Martha’s alike were also going home. Victor didn't like the looks received from the women peeking through their blinds and scowling at her for taking her wife to work. She got in the van and drove Anastasia hastily home, noticing people staring at them even through the Van's windows. It was clear why they were something to ogle because in public, wives travelled with wives, handmaids with handmaids, marthas with marthas, and men with other men; by going out together, Victor and Anastasia had broken one of the many unspoken rules. Victor couldn't take Anastasia to work with her again; it brought far too much attention to them, but that left her with a problem. How was she to protect her wife as well as her identity? Once again, life had thrown a curveball.


End file.
